


Knife Man

by sheared



Category: South Park
Genre: I'll update tags as fic goes on, M/M, Mystery, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:28:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26247958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheared/pseuds/sheared
Summary: When pulling his hand away, he finds something brown and coagulated lining it. He lifts it to his face and sniffs cautiously. It smells rotten.
Relationships: Christophe "The Mole" DeLorne/Damien Thorn
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To start this off: I’m sure none of you have read my previous attempts at trying to write this fanfiction, but I’m sure that doesn’t really matter. Let’s just say I’ve written this a couple different times and I’ve finally committed enough that I won’t delete it. If by some strange chance you have read my previous attempts, I’ve changed it around to fit better and also just to make it more interesting. Okay, that’s it. Enjoy.

The house reeks of foul copper, the pungent smell wafts up into his nose as he carefully steps over the frayed boards of the living room. He shuffles his feet against the wood to feel for holes in the floor, making sure he doesn’t fall through any. Suddenly, he trips, a loosened board sticking up from its spot, and he steadies himself by placing a hand against the wall. When pulling his hand away, he finds something brown and coagulated lining it. He lifts it to his face and sniffs cautiously. It smells rotten. He immediately rips himself from the wall, backing away in a panic and tripping over the same board from before. He lands on his ass first, then falls fully backwards, where he lays defeated on the dirty floor. 

“God fucking dammit,” Christophe hisses, sitting up slowly and rubbing his head with his clean hand. He checks his ankle to see if he twisted it.

Gregory enters through the front door, and snorts in disbelief upon seeing him. “Clumsy, are we?” He jests childishly. 

“Shut the fuck up!” Christophe snaps, abruptly standing up as if nothing had happened. He pats the dirt off his pants and mumbles explicits to himself in embarrassment. 

“He was definitely here,” Gregory muses while walking forward, making sure to watch his every step. He shines his flashlight over the walls, the floors, following the blood trail to the lifeless figure ten feet away from them. 

“No shit, I have blood all over my fucking arm,” Christophe waves his hand in front of Gregory’s face, who wrinkles his nose and backs away quickly.

“Don’t get it close to me, you cretin,” he says, a disgusted sneer lining his mouth. 

Christophe rolls his eyes and turns towards the body on the floor. Making out a familiar orange parka in the dark, he stalls, “Shit.” 

“Well, at least it’s only him,” Gregory notes, walking forward and kneeling down at Kenny’s dead body. He places a hand flat on his side and rolls him over. “He’s missing a kidney,” he announces. 

“You still don’t think this is the work of a cannibal?” Christophe jokes, coming up behind him and standing stiff in the stale air. He looks around the house with narrowed eyes, the flashlight lighting up dim shadows that move with Gregory’s hand, alerting his senses. 

“Yes, Mole, I’m sure.” He mutters, exasperated. 

They wait until Kenny wakes up, which takes about an hour after they found him, and immediately ask what the murderer looks like. 

“I don’t know, dude,” Kenny groans, sitting up slowly from his congealed pool of blood, “It’s dark in here, he was wearing all black.” 

“Aren’t there any details that you could make out?” Gregory insists. 

“He was really fucking tall,” Kenny shrugs, and stands up. 

Gregory sighs and rises from his kneeling position to join him. Christophe waits in the far corner with crossed arms, watching the trees from the window.

“Hey, Mole,” Kenny says in greeting as he passes him and walks out the front door, Christophe follows after him and waits for Gregory out on the porch. 

“So nothing else about the killer?” Christophe asks. Kenny shakes his head.

“No, he was tall, dressed in black, didn't even make a sound,” he shrugs again. He places his hands in his pockets to fight against the cold, “Hey, Chris, you got a light?” 

Christophe nods rigidly and pulls his lighter out from his green army jacket, hands it to Kenny, then steps back to lean against the porch railing. It creaks under his weight. 

“Well, at least we have some sort of description,” Gregory thinks out loud while tapping his chin with the flashlight, his face morphs with the light. 

Kenny pulls out a pack of cigarettes, the cheapest brand you can buy, and fishes one out from the pack. He puts it between his lips and lights it, cupping his hand around the flame so the wind doesn’t blow it out, then hands Christophe back his lighter. 

“Where were you before you were killed?” Gregory asks once he’s settled in. 

“Nightclub,” Kenny says. 

Gregory pauses in thought, and stands there for a few minutes before speaking again, “Why did you come here?” 

“To get high,” he says calmly, exhaling smoke towards the night sky.

Christophe looks at Gregory like he’s stupid, because the answer should be obvious with Kenny. 

“Could you have possibly been followed here from the nightclub?” Gregory inquires.

“Maybe, you know, nobody bumped into me weird or anything like that. But it’s possible,” he puffs on his cigarette steadily. Christophe watches him for a second, then decides to pull out his own pack and starts smoking. Once his nicotine addiction is satisfied, he leans against the railing again, more at ease. 

“He stabbed you?” Christophe asks blankly, pointing to the bloodied, ripped part of Kenny’s parka. 

“I guess so. I didn’t see a knife. Just his hands,” Kenny looks down at himself and pats at his jacket, feeling the hole in the fabric that led to his stomach, “Shit, did he take something from me?” 

“A kidney.” Gregory states. 

“For what? The black market?” Kenny looks up through a raised brow. 

“We don’t know his motive yet. But all the victims have been missing some sort of organ,” he relays the information to Kenny monotonously, like he’s lost in thought, “We also always find drugs in their system.” 

“You think someone’s drugging them at the nightclub?” Kenny asks. 

“That’s what we think so far.” Gregory sighs, leaning backwards against the wall with crossed arms. 

“Well,” Kenny starts, and flicks his cigarette towards the snow, “That’s some Jeffrey Dahmer shit right there.” 

Christophe snorts, inhaling the last of his cigarette deeply and snubbing it out on the railing. It gets tossed to the side and lands next to Kenny’s. 

“All the other victims had strange stab wounds as well,” Gregory adds, “But they don’t appear to have been made with a knife. Or… any apparatus that we know of, really.” 

“Well, I didn’t see anything,” Kenny repeats. 

“Thanks for answering our questions after… well, you know,” Gregory motions to his bloodied clothes, causing Kenny to look down. He shrugs a final time, and looks up with a careless grin. 

“No problem.” 

* * *

The clock reads 12:30 PM, his door swings open suddenly with Gregory barging in and looking at him in contempt. He immediately goes to Christophe’s blinds and snaps them open, sunlight rushes into the room and fills in every corner. Christophe groans as he shields himself from the sun with his blanket. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He growls from under his comforter. 

“We’re supposed to meet Tweek at two,” Gregory replies while standing at the edge of his bed.

“At least let us get breakfast first,” he mumbles and turns to face the other way. 

“... You mean lunch?” Gregory scoffs and checks the time, “Fine. There should be a diner not too far from here.” 

“As long as it has pancakes,” Christophe grumbles, throwing the blanket from himself.

Gregory rolls his eyes and leaves his room to get ready. Christophe fishes clothes out from his hamper, his usual attire of cargo pants and his army jacket. He plops down onto the floor and slips his boots onto each foot, tying the laces tightly before standing up again. 

He meets Gregory out in the hallway, who looks at him under raised brows, “Ready?” 

The restaurant is about a fifteen minute walk from their apartment, fliers are posted haphazardly along the brick walls, detailing different kinds of events around town. They enter through the front doors and are greeted by a lone waitress, the place empty aside from one other person. They’re seated in a booth in the far right corner, a man opposite of them watches, clad in ragged clothing and worn boots. He never stops staring. 

Christophe eyes him heavily, putting on his best scowl and keeping it steady. Gregory orders his meal after a minute of looking through the menu, and looks up at Christophe expectantly before he follows his glare. He spots the man across the room, but doesn’t stare for more than a few seconds before turning his head back.

“Christophe,” Gregory says while reading the menu, shielding himself from the man’s view. 

“Pancakes,” he blurts out.

“Is that all, hon?” The waitress asks. She looks at him impatiently.

“Uh, eggs. Bacon.” Christophe barely glances at her.

“I’ll get you a combo. Scrambled?” She continues, tapping her pen against her little notebook.

“Yes,” he nods, preoccupied. 

She takes their menus and leaves through the kitchen doors. Gregory watches her for a minute before turning back to him, “Don’t stare at the suspects.”

“Oh, is he a suspect?” Christophe scoffs.

Gregory grins, “No, but he might as well be with such little leads.”

The man gets up slowly from his table, as if he were summoned by their gossip. His movements are stiff and uneasy. They watch him as he walks over.

“You two look new in town,” he slurs when he reaches them. 

“A bit,” Gregory replies politely. He sets his hands down onto the table and crosses them neatly.

“Yanno, I’ve been watchin’ people like you… new people like you… aroun’ town,” the man smells a bit like alcohol and reeks strongly of cigarettes. Christophe doesn’t mind the latter. 

“Is that so?” He smiles.

“Yeah… And yanno what I think?” The man mumbles almost incoherently.

“What’s that?” Gregory inquires. 

“Bad news.” He states confidently, carelessly plopping down next to Christophe, who nearly cusses him out until Gregory raises his hand to shush him. 

“What makes us bad news?” He continues.

The man keeps going without answering, “... He sees you out on the streets, he picks you up... he tells you what good he’ll do for you, an’ then you disappear.” 

“Disappear?...” Gregory says, a confused brow forming his face.

“Dead.” He says gruffly.

“Who is he taking?” Gregory asks.

“The homeless,” the man slurs, swaying to the side of the booth. 

“You’re homeless?” He tilts his head.

“Off and on.” He scratches himself under his coat, glancing at Christophe suspiciously, who snorts in disbelief and sneers at him.

“Do you know who could possibly be behind this?” Gregory waves his hand at Christophe to get him to stop. He doesn’t. 

“Besides you guys?” He laughs to himself. 

Gregory fakely smiles and nods. 

“Maybe… yanno… this one kid in town… never had a very good feeling about ‘im,” the man steadies himself by placing his arms on top of the table, leaning closer to Gregory as he speaks.

His eyes spark up at a possible new lead, “Who’s that?” 

“Damien Thorn… got some crazy eyes… got an… an awful feelin’ to ‘im,” he shivers at the thought, fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers. He almost tips one over from his carelessness. 

“Do you know where Damien Thorn lives?” Gregory asks him, watching his movements. Christophe starts to grow impatient and moves to the far side of the booth. He bangs his head against the window once and groans. Gregory looks at him like he’s an unruly child.

“On the outskirts of town a bit, yanno I heard he used to go to school here, but moved before he could really settle down. I heard an awful lot of odd stuff happened when he was around. Awful lot of odd stuff still happenin’ since he’s been back.” The man looks at Christophe for a second, oblivious to his annoyance. 

“How long has he been back for?” Gregory looks back at the sound of the kitchen door opening.

“Couple of months,” the man says.

He turns back to look at the both of them, his eyes settle on Christophe. They give each other the same knowing look. 

“Thanks for all the information,” Gregory adds quickly, ending the conversation short. The waitress comes with their food immediately after. He pulls out his wallet and hands the man a twenty, “Do you know anyone else who knows about Damien Thorn?”

“Damn, just ask about anyone in this town, and they’ll tell you plenty about ‘im, he’s got quite the reputation,” the man grins at the twenty and takes it from Gregory slowly, “Thanks a bunch. God bless you,” he says, moving out from Christophe’s side of the booth and returning to his own table. 

The waitress looks at the scene with a questioning brow, and then sets their plates down in front of them. She gets the placement wrong and sets Christophe’s meal in front of Gregory, and vice versa. “Enjoy,” she says monotonously before leaving. 

Once she’s passed the kitchen doors, they hand each other the correct plates. Christophe scarfs his food down relatively quickly, while Gregory takes a far slower approach. He asks for the bill when the waitress returns to their table. Once everything is paid for they leave the restaurant, the man they talked to watching as they go. 

They stand outside of the diner for a moment, the silence overtaking them. 

“The murders have been happening for a couple of months,” Gregory speaks up.

“You think we found him?” Christophe asks, pulling out his pack of cigarettes.

“Maybe.” He goes quiet again. Christophe starts to smoke.

Gregory turns to him eventually, saying simply, “Guess we should talk to Tweek about Damien.” 

* * *

Tweek lived not too far away from the center of town, only about a twenty-minute walk out. Peeling paint lines the walls and railings of his house, a dreary gray to match the constant color of the sky. The porch was in need of some work, with stray boards tossed around near the walls. Gregory takes the initiative and knocks on the door, followed by Tweek opening it slowly, the chain lock still hooked. He peers out at them suspiciously.

“Don’t worry, Tweek, there’s no one following us,” Gregory reassures him through veiled exasperation. He gives a look over his shoulder just to check.

“... A-alright then,” he says slowly, closing the door. They can hear him unhooking the chain, as well as unlatching a myriad of other locks. They look at each other impatiently. 

He lets them inside immediately after, practically ushering them through, and hurriedly shuts the door while rehooking the first lock. The house is a mess with dust lining the furniture, Gregory leans to the side to peer into the kitchen where he sees dishes piling up by the sink, filled with mold and rotting food. The air is stale from the windows never being opened, causing him to wrinkle his nose, almost offended by the smell. He starts to pull on his gloves nervously, fidgeting through his discomfort. Christophe watches him from the corner of his eyes, unimpressed.

“So, you’re here for the money?” Tweek asks, turning to face them.

“That, and some questions to ask you about a new lead,” Gregory replies, his fidgeting hand settling limply around his wrist. 

Tweek shuffles past them towards a white envelope, “A-alright, go ahead.”

“Do you know anything about someone named Damien Thorn?” Gregory asks, watching Tweek closely.

He stalls. “Y-You guys should stay away from him. He’s bad news,” he starts through gritted teeth, “He’s like the rest of them.” 

“Bad news how?” He tilts his head. 

“Those eyes,” Tweek explains while twitching, “They’re the devil’s eyes.”

“Eyes?” Gregory starts to pull on his gloves again, tugging at the fingertips.

“Bright red eyes,” Tweek says apprehensively, “T-they stare right through you… I’ve talked to him before. If you’re thinking he’s the killer then you better be careful.” He picks up the envelope and opens it with his index finger, peeking inside to make sure whatever is in there stayed there, and hasn't been stolen by somebody else.

“How do people not notice him if he has red eyes?” Christophe asks, confused. He watches Tweek’s hands fiddle with the envelope. 

“Oh, p-people notice him, alright,” Tweek gives a soft laugh, hands the envelope to Gregory, then shuffles his way into his living room, “Come on in.” 

Gregory raises his brows at the envelope, and opens it to look inside. A giant wad of cash lays there, some bills wrinkled to death while others in pristine condition. He looks at Christophe out of the corner of his eye, who stares at the envelope in disbelief. No reason for them to ask how Tweek got the money, they already know his side business by now. They glance at each other briefly, then look away. 

“T-there should be enough in there,” he stutters, holding himself.

Gregory gives Tweek one of his fake smiles, “I’ll count it,” he says, and fingers through the cash with ease. Once he’s done, he splits it down the middle and hands half of it to Christophe, who pockets it immediately. There was precisely the right amount.

“Like I said, come right in.” Tweek repeats, arms motioning them towards the living room. 

Gregory and Christophe give one final look towards each other before they decide to enter Tweek’s trashed living room. Christophe does one final look around before his eyes finally settle on their host.

Tweek pats crumbs off the couch and jerks his head towards it, “H-Have a seat,” he offers. 

Gregory raises a hand and smiles, “It’s alright. I’ll stand.” He gives another fake smile.

Christophe rolls his eyes and moves forward to sit down on the couch, he leans back against the cushion. 

“Do you know where Damien lives?” Gregory asks, moving around the living room and looking at Tweek’s choice of decoration. He stops at a miniature merry-go-round.

“He lives out of town a bit, n-near Stark’s pond, past the church,” Tweek answers, sitting down on the arm chair across from the couch. He motions to the loose candy laying around on the stained coffee table, Christophe raises and shakes his hand as a “no thank you.”

“Of course he does,” Gregory muses. He looks over his shoulder at Tweek once he’s done observing the furniture. His arms fold across his chest. “Besides his eyes, what else is strange about him? Any stories?” 

“J-Just ones from school,” He starts, eyes darting all around, “He lays pretty low now. I hardly ever see him out.”

“What happened at school?” Gregory turns to face them. 

“He used these p-powers against the other kids, he’d lift things up, throw them,” he says, “All with his mind. And t-then there was the fire.”

“The fire?”

“Yeah, he started this fire on the playground, e-everyone had to evacuate,” Tweek explains.

Christophe and Gregory throw another glance towards each other. 

“So we’re dealing with a demon?” Christophe mumbles hostilely. His arms are crossed as he leans back against the couch. He stares up at Gregory who looks deep in thought. 

“Yeah, if t-that’s what you call it,” Tweek looks at him and shrugs. He takes a piece of candy for himself. 

“But nothing more recent?” Gregory looks up from staring at the floor, eyes searching until they land on Tweek and Christophe.

“N-No, like I said, hardly ever comes out of his house.” He sucks on the butterscotch mindlessly.

“Well, thank you, Tweek. You’ve been a help like always,” Gregory says and motions with his head for Christophe to follow him to the door. 

Christophe gets up from his seated position and starts moving towards the front door. Tweek follows soon after, throwing the wrapper back onto the coffee table.

“S-so you guys think this is something you’ll be able to do? I can’t keep having my clients get killed like this. It’s bad for business,” he states.

“I think we can handle it.” Gregory looks back at him with a reassuring grin. Tweek looks over at Christophe who simply nods, and gives him an awkward thumbs up before looking away. 

“Yeah, we’ll do it.” He says, then turns towards the opened front door. Gregory is already out on the porch.

Tweek follows them out through the door, and stops them before they can make it too far past the steps, “And be c-careful if you see that Damien guy… I’m telling you guys, he’s bad news.”

* * *

Christophe’s eyes span the aging brick walls of their apartment building, his eyes settling on the second floor at his window. They take the stairs up, seeing as how the elevator is down for maintenance, and enter through their front door, exhausted and worn from the cold. Gregory stops at the door to take off his boots and sets them on the shoe rack. Christophe doesn’t care enough to bother. 

“I’m getting pizza tonight, seeing as how we don’t have any groceries,” Gregory says while shutting the door. He starts to lock the door; they have about as many locks as Tweek does.

“I can go shopping tomorrow,” Christophe offers, only because he needs something to do. 

Gregory gives a hum in acknowledgment and moves to turn on the heater, warming his hands over the metal. “We should drop by Damien’s place tonight,” Gregory says over his shoulder, “Get started on our new lead.” 

“Do we have to do it tonight?” Christophe groans, throwing himself on the couch. 

“We should get it out of the way,” he says, and turns away from the heater to face him. “I’m getting excited about this case.”

“Excited that we have to deal with a fucking demon?” Christophe hisses. 

“Not like we haven’t done it before,” Gregory shrugs, and moves towards the phone. He looks on the fridge for the number to the pizza place and dials it in. “We should also keep Kenny in mind,” he says after hanging up the phone, “I’m sure he’ll prove to be useful in the future, seeing as how he had first hand experience and all.”

The pizza comes soon after and they decide the best place to eat is the living room floor, although they’ve yet to set up their TV. Boxes are lined up against the walls, some opened and some completely untouched. With everything newly moved in and their days busy with chasing leads, they haven’t had time to unpack their new apartment. 

They sit mostly in silence as they eat, the quiet disturbed by soft shuffling and clinking plates. 

“I’ve always had a bad feeling about this town,” Gregory says suddenly, looking up at Christophe, who glares at him for interrupting his eating. 

“Yeah? I wonder why,” he says with a full mouth, going back to his food when he realizes Gregory isn’t done speaking.

“Don’t you feel it too?” He asks, his voice tainted with worry.

“Of course it’s off, it’s South Park, it’s always off,” Christophe reasons. 

“But especially now. You really can’t feel it?” He insists, looking at him incredulously; with everything they’re hearing about, he’d be stupid to deny it. 

Christophe stops eating, because yes, of course he can, but he’d rather ignore it, keep on moving, get the job done and get the fuck out of here while they can. 

“No.” He sets his pizza down on his plate.

Gregory sighs, sits back, and looks at his food like he’s uninterested in eating, like it's making him sick. As he picks up his plate he stands, looking down at Christophe with a calculating stare, “I wish you’d push into your fear sometimes.” 

“Stop reading me and eat your fucking pizza!” He snarls, which makes Gregory laugh loudly, succeeding in pissing Christophe off. 

He continues to walk to the sink, his laughter dissipating as he sets his plate down. “I really mean it this time, though. I’m not sure if we can run from this, Mole. We’re going to have to meet this head-on.” Christophe knows that by  _ we _ he means  _ you _ , which pisses him off further. Because he’s right. “I’ll start getting ready for tonight,” Gregory says finally.

He saunters calmly to his room, like he didn’t just allude to an imminent, unescapable danger, and shuts the door behind him. 

“Fucking bitch.” Christophe hisses, giving his pizza the same look that Gregory gave his own, and decides that he’s finished with eating for the night. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long.

The sound of wind chimes clattering amongst themselves surrounds the two as they move through the wooded area enclosing Damien’s house. The house before them is shrouded with darkness. Around them is a faint, unknown scent that wafts from the walls up into their noses. The old stairs creak with their shifting weight, reminiscent of something you’d hear in a horror movie. As Christophe steps forward, he tentatively raises a closed fist to Damien’s front door. Before he can knock, the door swings open and he’s met with a man who towers over him. He raises his eyebrows upon seeing Christophe, like he wasn’t expecting company, then opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something before Gregory cuts him off. 

“Are you Damien Thorn?” Gregory immediately asks, his breath fogging in the night air. 

Damien’s voice is monotonous and clear, “Yes.” 

“We have some questions for you if you don’t mind us asking,” Gregory politely responds, and crosses his arms behind his back. 

“Ehhh…” He looks down at his watch, “I was about to head out.” 

“It’ll only take a moment.” Gregory insists. 

Damien watches Christophe for a moment. 

“Fine,” He decides, widening the gap of his door and stepping to the side. They cautiously enter his house and immediately look around in curiosity. 

“We’re mercenaries investigating a case,” Gregory begins, tearing his eyes away from the decorations hung onto the wall, plain ones that seem painfully human. He scans Damien as he walks past him, “I’m sure you’ve heard of the murders happening in town.”

“Everyone has,” Damien states, his eyes trailing over Gregory just the same. The air feels stiff between the three of them. 

Gregory nods, “From what we’ve heard around town, we figured you might be of some help to us.”

Damien watches them look around his house, seemingly unbothered by their snooping, “Who told you that?” 

Gregory turns back to him, “Client confidentiality.” He states.

Damien chuckles and closes the door behind them. Christophe’s skin prickles with the click of the lock. 

“You have questions right?” Damien says finally, “Ask away.” 

Gregory throws a glance to Christophe before beginning. His eyes seemed to be fixed on something on Damien’s shirt before he snaps himself out of it. He smiles to himself almost. “Where were you last night?” 

“Home.” He says blankly. 

“Anyone to back that up?” Christophe comments. 

Damien shakes his head, looking at Christophe through his bangs, “No.” 

“We hear a lot of talk about your peculiarity,” Gregory puts it, “People talk about powers… starting fires with your mind, things like that. Is that all real?” 

He grins, red eyes shining brightly, “What do you think?” 

Gregory looks unimpressed, “From what I see in front of me, I can only guess it’s a yes.” 

“You’re not scared?” He questions. 

“Of course not.” Gregory and Christophe look at each other in amusement. “We’ve dealt with demons before.” 

Damien purses his lips like he has something to say, but looks away and shrugs instead. 

Gregory narrows his eyes but lets it go. “The wounds on the bodies aren’t human-made.”

Damien raises a brow at him, “So you think it’s me?” 

“Why wouldn’t we?” Gregory tilts his head, “But you’re only a suspect - you still have time to prove your case.” 

Damien is silent for a moment, “...I can help you?” He suggests.

Gregory scoffs, “Help us? How?”

“Well, you say that the wounds aren’t human-made. I know plenty of things about those that aren’t human.” He grins. 

Christophe uncrosses his arms and leans to the side, “You really think we’d trust you enough to help us with the case? After we just said we suspect you of murder?”

“Why not? Surely that must prove something to you.” Damien sneers at him. 

Gregory shakes his head, “No, we have plenty of contacts already.” 

“I can offer you plenty of information.” He insists, though there’s something about it that feels off. 

Gregory looks caught off guard, his mouth slightly agape as he searches for words.

“Any reason why you’d want to do that?” Christophe leans to the side. 

Damien copies his movement, “Maybe I’m bored.”

“We need to focus on our case if you don’t mind,” Gregory cuts in.

Damien smirks at the both of them and drops his shoulders in mock defeat, “Alright, alright.”

Gregory pulls on his gloves, an old habit he can’t get rid of, “We heard you’ve only been back for a couple of months,” he says.

“That’s right,” Damien crosses his arms.

Christophe breaks his silence, “What were you doing in your time away?”

Gregory moves closer to Christophe once he’s done snooping through Damien’s things, deciding he hasn’t found anything of importance. 

“Business down in hell, if you can believe it,” his red eyes don’t move an inch from Christophe’s figure. 

“And why did you come back?” Christophe’s stance is wide as he realizes Damien is staring him down.

Damien places a hand on his heart and leans forward, “South Park’s always felt like home to me,” he says, “Plus it’s the only place on Earth that doesn’t chase me out with pitchforks, surprisingly.” 

“The murders line up quite nicely with you being back,” Gregory says. 

Damien laughs, “That’s an unfortunate coincidence.”

There’s a short silence between the three of them.

“Well, thanks for the information that you did provide us,” Gregory announces abruptly. 

“I provided you with information?” He looks surprised. 

Gregory pulls his gloves on tighter as he gets ready to brace the cold night air once more, “Yes, now we know exactly where to look.”

Damien gives an inquisitive brow, confused. 

Gregory continues, “We’ll be seeing ourselves out.” 

* * *

They walk back down the gravel path that leads to Damien’s, their shoes scrape against the pebbles and the noise of it echoes against the trees. 

Christophe starts to mumble, “What the fuck was that about?”

“What? Him trying to help us?” He shrugs, then lets out a short puff of air, “Probably just taunting us. You know how demons are.”

“And what do you mean he provided us with information?” He asks.

Gregory grins widely, then turns his head to look at him, “Didn’t you see his nametag?”

“...No.” Christophe murmurs. 

“He works at the nightclub,” Gregory says emphatically. He turns back to look at the path. 

They hear crickets chirping all around them, and an occasional croak from a frog. The stars twinkle comfortingly above them. With a night so quiet it’s easy to forget they’re investigating a dangerous murderer. 

“Why does a demon need to work at a nightclub?” Christophe scoffs loudly.

Gregory stops in his tracks and shushes him, his index finger pressed to his lips, “Quiet, he could be listening.” 

Christophe surveys the trees suspiciously, then shrugs, “Like it matters.” 

Gregory’s phone starts to ring and buzz in his pocket, without looking at the caller ID, he answers. 

“I found another body,” Tweek says immediately. He sounds panicked, like usual. 

“ _You_ found another body?” Gregory repeats.

“I was making a deal at Stark’s Pond,” he explains, his voice hushed for no reason. 

Gregory stalls, “Don’t touch it.”

“I won’t,” Tweek says.

“Get out of there while you can, the killer could still be there,” Gregory warns him, then hangs up. 

“Looks like we’ve got another body,” Gregory looks at him with tired eyes, and Christophe looks back at him with an angry glare.

“I don’t want to fucking do anymore.” He growls.

* * *

They stand over the body at the pond. It’s laid flat on its stomach with blood pooled around, browning already against the snow. The pond is frozen over completely. 

“All in a day’s work,” Gregory jests.

“Shut the fuck up, I’d rather be home,” Christophe tiredly snaps. He kneels down at the body and starts patting the overcoat for any stab wounds. 

“It’s that homeless guy,” Gregory says as Christophe flips the body over. 

Once the body is flat on its back, Christophe stops, staring at a gaping stomach. “Errr…” 

“That’s a first.” Gregory clicks his tongue, then kneels down beside Christophe to shine his flashlight on the wound. “The lines of the cuts are always so strange...” 

“He’s practically ripped open,” Christophe watches Gregory pull his latex gloves out of his pocket and put them on. He feels along the inner walls of the open wound, and then under the rib cage. 

“Took his stomach.” He continues to feel around, “Looks like he left everything else,” he pulls his hand out. Taking off his gloves, he puts them in a plastic ziploc bag and shoves it in his coat pocket. He takes out a small notebook and writes down notes. “This is the most he’s ever cut someone open.” 

“He’s getting desperate?” Christophe looks up at him for a moment, then looks back down at the body before him. He fishes around the homeless man’s pocket for anything useful. He pulls out an old, torn wallet with an ID that expired three years ago. 

“Desperate, maybe. He could also just stop caring. Demons don’t need to be careful.” Gregory hums in thought, “They don’t have any evidence to worry about.”

“Why do you suppose he’s doing this?” Christophe unbuttons the old leather. 

“Not sure yet. We could use that.” Gregory looks over when he opens the wallet, “Anything else in there?” 

“Nothing of importance, really.” Christophe looks through credit cards, ones that are either expired or stolen. 

Christophe pockets the wallet and then stands from his kneeling position. The wind blows through his hair and makes him shiver into his scarf.

Gregory puts his index finger to his lips, “We should make one last stop for the night.” 

Christophe groans, crosses his arms and asks, “Where.” 

* * *

“Excuse me, do you know anything about this man?” 

The homeless woman in front of them squints at the ID being held up to her face, and nods when she recognizes the name, “Yeah, I know him,” she says gruffly. 

“We found him tonight near Stark’s Pond, he was dead,” Gregory informs her. She looks taken aback, but unsurprised. “We were wondering when the last time you saw him was, and if you saw him with anyone in particular.” 

“I know what this is about,” she states gravely, “it’s all those bodies being found around town.” She sighs, and shakes her head, “I didn’t see him before his death, no.”

“Do you know where he could have possibly been before he died?” Gregory asks.

She leans to the side. “… Every time I see one of us going up to that car, I know something’s going to happen.” 

Gregory looks at her under furrowed brows, “What car?”

“A black car comes around these parts at night,” she hisses. “Picks up the desperate.”

“Why do you think they go up to the car if they know they're going to die?” Christophe asks. 

“Got nowhere else to go,” she shrugs solemnly, and looks around, “Hey, you guys look new in town...” 

“We’re investigating the murders,” Gregory tells her, “We’re trying to find who killed your friend. Can you tell us any more about the car? Or the man in the car?”

“Are you guys detectives?” She grins childishly. 

Gregory nods shortly. “Something along those lines. Have you ever seen the man in the car?” He asks her again.

“Can hardly see him in the dark,” she says, “Can’t make out anything of him beside the black car.”

“Do you know the model of the car?” 

“No… I’m not too good with cars, but it was a real nice one.” She rubs her hands together for warmth. “New and fancy.”

Gregory watches her, “Does he usually come around here when he picks people up?”

“For the most part, yeah,” she answers, “I’d say around the early morning usually, when it’s still dark out, though I can hardly ever tell the time.”

“What about his eyes, anything unusual about them?” Christophe leans forward to speak. 

“No, I never see his eyes. Can’t see his face, you know. I just see people going in, and never coming back.” She looks back when she hears her name being called.

“Hey, Betty, what’re you talking to those guys for?” Someone yells.

“They’re detectives,” she yells back, “It’s about Bobby.”

Gregory thinks while tapping his finger to his lips. Christophe watches him from the corner of his eye. He seems almost lost. 

He looks up once he’s thought of something.

“Do you know Damien Thorn?” He catches her attention again. 

“God, everybody does.” She laughs, it’s deep and hoarse from smoking. 

“Do you think he could be behind this? That’s what your friend said, now he’s dead.” Gregory purses his lips. 

“You know, I can’t really say,” she starts, “He’s quite the hermit. As far as I know all he does is stay inside all day. I see him out at night. That’s about it.”

Gregory nods when she’s done talking, “What does he do at night?”

She grunts as she thinks, “I heard he works up at that night club.” She itches holes in her skin, scabs that line her arms. 

“Yes, we figured that out,” Gregory looks down at her rolled up sleeves and raises his eyebrows in acknowledgment, “Anything else you know?”

“Well, there’s that garden that he goes to.” She looks off to the side. 

“Garden?” Gregory and Christophe say in unison.

“Yeah, the public one right out of town. It’s not hard to find.” She juts her head in the direction of the garden, somewhere off in the distance. 

Gregory takes out his small notepad and writes down the information she’s said in the past couple of minutes, “Do you know the name of the garden?”

“Yeah, it’s uh, it’s…” She closes her eyes in thought, squinting them real hard, “You know what, I think they call it the Garden of Eden. Truly a beautiful place.” She comments, sounding almost mesmerized.

“Garden of Eden?” Christophe scoffs under his breath, face tucked snugly into the fabric of his brown scarf. 

“Is there anything weird about this garden?” Gregory inquires, his voice slightly high pitched in curiosity, “Anything worth noting?”

“I don’t go over there much,” she shrugs. “Ain’t a place for someone like me.” She laughs again.

Gregory looks up from writing through a raised brow, “What do you mean by that?” 

“It’s someplace… too beautiful for someone as old and ragged as me,” she chuckles half-heartedly. She finally meets Gregory’s eyes. 

“It must be a very special place for you to say that,” Gregory puts his pen down neatly on top of his notepad.

“What’s it like?” Christophe speaks up from his scarf, face raised slightly over the fabric so his voice can be heard. 

“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” she laments. “Whoever made it took their time. Whoever takes care of it does a wonderful job.” She rasps, then lets out a thick, wet cough into the air. 

Gregory takes in the information, then smiles at her, trying his best to ignore the germs he now feels are surrounding them, “Thank you. We’ll be heading out now.” 

They start to walk down the sidewalk before they hear her call something out. 

“Hey, do either one of you smoke?”

* * *

When they return home, Gregory goes to a growing pinboard, one with red tacks and string. “So far he’s taken a kidney, a liver…” He trails on, but Christophe doesn’t bother to listen. He places a red tack on a poster of the human anatomy, right over the stomach. There are red tacks placed carefully all around. 

“Do you think he’s collecting trophies?” Christophe suggests.

“It can’t be that simple,” Gregory shrugs, “I mean, those wounds aren’t made by a human. There has to be something supernatural about this.” 

Christophe goes to the fridge to pull out leftovers. “Maybe sacrifices.” 

“Maybe,” Gregory says doubtfully. 

“Damien could tell us about sacrifices,” Christophe smirks while putting the leftovers into a bowl, and then the microwave. 

Gregory rolls his eyes, exasperated, “We are not going to him. Especially not so early. If we need help from a suspect it better be dire.”

“Just a suggestion,” Christophe plops down onto the couch lazily after taking his food from the microwave, feet kicked up onto the coffee table carelessly.

Gregory comes around the table and walks through Christophe’s legs, knocking them down, “Well, don’t suggest it again.”

“You two might get along,” Christophe smirks, “You’re both pompous assholes.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Gregory hisses and looks at him in disbelief. 

“Are we going to that garden tomorrow?” Christophe sits up from leaning back. His fork sticks out from the bowl and he grabs it to shovel food into his mouth. 

“Yes, after you go grocery shopping,” Gregory reminds him. 

Christophe hums through a full mouth of food as he acknowledges him.

“We should also see Kenny if we can. I have a plan for him to work out.” Gregory pulls out his pocketbook to review the notes he’s taken during the night.

“What is it?” Christophe asks while putting the empty bowl onto the coffee table.

“I’m still mulling it over, but I’m thinking we can get him in that car if we’re in the right place at the right time.” Gregory flips a page.

“He won’t like that,” Christophe huffs in amusement.

“No, he won’t, but I’ll be sure to pay him for it,” Gregory says while in deep thought. 

“That’s coming out of your pay!” Christophe sits up abruptly, eyes squinting at Gregory suspiciously. 

“I know,” Gregory says, but Christophe knows he can’t be trusted. He’s done it before. “I’m going to bed.” 

Christophe looks over at the clock and realizes the time, “Let me sleep in tomorrow,” he says. 

“We’ll see,” Gregory replies while standing up, hands splayed on his knees as he does so. 

Christophe is left alone with only the sound of a ticking clock. He gets up and puts his bowl in the kitchen sink, knowing Gregory will probably bitch at him later for not cleaning it, then goes to his room and shuts the door behind him. He passes out almost immediately. 


End file.
